A Winter Month and The 74 Vikings Quietly in the Books

I don't think I've ever landed a trout in January. I think the precedent was set in 1991 or 92. A few months after Pablo and his crew, at that time a paltry crew of 3 skinny boys, relocated to Oxford NC we decided to start the new year off right. On the stealthy intel of a neighborly lawyer and equally effected piscator whose name I believe was Norman, first or last, I can't recall, we learned of the Smith River, which flowed along the NC- Virginia border. With detailed directions which included, "turn left by the vacant mirror factory" we set out on a bleak, cold new years day. I only recall the cold and greyness of the day and the large, slow water, and being skunked. Seems we drove a lot and fished a little. A pattern that marked the early years, whether east or west. Doubtless if we had the gear we now possess, especially after 6 weeks of unprecedented splurgery, we'd have stayed in the water if nothing else to test our gear.

Every year since that maiden January 1 voyage, I've fished sometime in January and never even whiffed a trout. Analyzing why I continue this pepe le pew, I think it's the Santa Clause effect. After several days of bleary eyed gluttony, stumbling around the house over scads of new toys, clothes, shoes, gadgets and wrapping paper, after hopefully taking down every visible indicator of the winter fest which I've cursed since Halloween, I've flat out gotta get out of the house and into the water. Doesn't really matter if there are fish in the stream or if those fish ignore me and all my little deceptions. I just gotta get out, gotta start of the year with cold clear water running around my legs.

But now alas, the most stingy and dreary of all winter months, January is now quietly in the books of 2011. Used to be that the Super bowl was in January, but one year January lost it to February. Speaking of which, I was just reminded by a high light that all through my childhood, I pulled for those Minnesota Vikings that could never win the big one. Fran the Man, the Purple People Eaters. Why is that? Why didn't I switch over to Snake, Biletnikoff and the Raiders like all my buddies or the Cowboys like all those fair weather geeks. Why was I content to wear an Ahmad Rashad jersey (yah, he played for the Vikings before he married Mrs. Huckstable and he was #28, cool number for a wide out) when everyone had Lynn Swan. Need to share that with my therapist, probably something to that one. Ok, where was I....February is upon me and that usually means a day or two of spring will poke it's head into the month and fill me with hope. And, of course, February is the quickest of it's twelve brothers and March marks the glorious dumping of thousands of test tube trout in two creeks within an hour of my house. Yes, the Minnesota Vikings of trout- they get no respect, they are not the sexy, gear marketing spring run steel head. Patagonia isn't going to name their next line of waders after Wilson Creek. But, I was Viking fan, so I'll take these runner ups, take em on dry fly, nymph or streamer, whatever it takes. I'll be finding little pockets of time when I can watch the trees green up and the light dabble the current through their shadows. I can bring my stupid non-hunting, hunting dog mix (Minnesota Vikings??) in my hand-me-down little truck and maybe have a new reel to try out.

Heck Fire man, January's gone, February's working it's way through, Ahmad Rashad is from Oregon- WHOA, now this is really getting freaky... I'll be hooking stockies (sounds cooler huh) till June and then, and then, well everyone know what happens then, we head north, and I don't mean Minnesota! Though I hear they got some nasty musky up there, fish for em with a fly called the purple people eater.